


Some Rules

by mightbeanasshole



Series: Better Luck Next Time (Call Boy AU) [5]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 07:36:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4738007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole/pseuds/mightbeanasshole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some rules in the business are by design. (Jottillo pwp, basically. The world needs more Jack smut.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Rules

Some rules in the business are by design.

Some rules seem to develop on their own--out of necessity, out of common sense, out of lessons learned and suspicions formed.

The boys travel to their clients’ homes and not the other way around: common sense.

Jack meets each new client before sending one of his employees: necessity.

Clients must be sober for their first appointment: lesson learned.

Jack doesn’t sleep with his employees: by design.

Some rules protect their safety.

Some rules are made to be broken.

\---

It starts with a knock on the door sometime after 10 p.m. and ends with a string of threats pouring out of Jack's mouth like nothing Michael has ever heard before.

The john has shown up unannounced to the nice little two-story house that Michael and Ray share with Jack in Sparks. Close enough to Reno to make it to quick calls at the drop of the hat, but far enough from tourists and gamblers and conventions to make it home for the three men.

It’s the bartender--Cameron. A demanding john who has never hurt Michael but who also never quite sat right with him.

Jack hasn’t been home all evening and Ray is out on a call. Michael wouldn’t have cracked the door--would’ve just pretended not to be home--but Ray is due back any minute, and Michael doesn’t want Ray pulling up into a volatile situation. So he cracks the door.

Two minutes later the man is in his living room, and the volume of his voice has Michael's blood pounding hard.

Five minutes later, Michael is pretending to listen to the man as he rants, trying to text Jack by feel alone--the phone hidden in his pocket--and he hopes that he’s tapping the text message “911… 911… 911” to the correct number.

Ten minutes later, Jack is there.

\---

When the threat is gone, when Cameron is back on the highway with a few creative and very real threats that will keep him up at night, Jack and Michael take a moment to breathe and look at each other, there in the living room.

Michael rarely sees Jack get angry, and the way Jack had handled the man suggested a rage so hot it went white. Though never from Jack, Michael has been on the receiving end of anger like that.

More than a few times.

And so he braces himself. Readies his excuses, his rationalizations.

But Jack doesn’t ask Michael why he let the man in. Jack doesn’t lecture Michael. Jack doesn’t insist that Michael learn a lesson from what had happened.

Jack doesn't imply that any part of what had happened, in fact, is in any way Michael’s fault.

And Jack doesn't ask for an explanation.

The moment the man is dealt with and gone, the fight seems to go out of him, and Jack wraps Michael tight in his arms.

“Jesus, Michael,” he says softly--and Michael can feel the man’s voice reverberating in his chest. “Jesus. Christ almighty. You scared me.”

“You got here so fast,” Michael says. “Thank you, Jack.”

Jack hangs onto him almost too tight--and it’s too hot to be pulled into someone’s chest like this, they’re both starting to sweat there in the living room, but it doesn’t matter. It feels good that someone in the world cares enough about Michael to be as scared as Jack apparently had been--and Michael savors the realization.

\---

Ray comes home and seems to know that something is wrong just from the quality of the air.

“What happened?” are the first words out of his mouth, even though by all accounts there is nothing out of the ordinary about finding Michael and Jack in the living room.

Jack recounts the story: a john drunk and angry and somehow smart enough to find his way to their house. A panicked text message. A rush home. Jack posturing, threatening.

Michael wants Ray to stay--wants to feel like a family tonight--but Ray is on his way to the shower and another call.

Michael’s almost hurt until, after Ray disappears to the back of the house, Jack says, “It’s Ryan,” and it makes sense. If Michael had a client--a friend--like Ryan, he’d be on his way out too. And after all: nothing had happened. The bartender hadn’t hurt Michael or even threatened him. Just shook him up.

“I’m spending the night,” Ray says as he walks out a few minutes later, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “If that’s ok?”

“Ray--it’s your time,” Jack says. “Of course it’s ok.” Ray nods and then he’s gone.

\---

Michael makes a real effort to sleep. But by 2 a.m. he’s still buzzing with manic, nervous energy.

_Shouldn’t have let him in. What was I thinking? What would I have done without Jack?_

And he has no outlet for it.

\---

Jack, too, makes a real effort to sleep. He’s decided to set up in the living room tonight, dragging a blanket to the big couch. He can’t imagine going back upstairs to his bed where he can’t hear a thing downstairs, where there would be no substantial, angry body between the front door and Michael.

But by 2 a.m., Jack is still tormented by worst case scenarios, and sleep does not come.

_What if Michael hadn’t had his phone? What if I hadn’t seen his texts?_

He knows it’s a fruitless pursuit, and he still can’t leave it alone. What rule could’ve prevented it? How could he keep his boys safe in a world like this? And what about the ones who didn’t live with them in Sparks? Did they trust Jack enough to call on him for help, like Michael had?

He feels unmoored--like some part of his chest has come undone without warning.

Jack hears Michael long before he sees him.

His senses are on high alert, even hours later after the confrontation. Jack hears the slip of door hinges, the soft and hollow sound of bare feet on wood floors. And then, in the dim light: Michael in the doorway--all dark boxer briefs and pale skin.

“Can’t sleep?” Jack asks softly, not wanting to startle him.

“No,” Michael says, making his way to the couch. “You either?”

“No,” Jack admits.

Michael hovers over him on the couch.

“Can I… ?” Michael asks, staying vague.

Jack attempts to scoot to one side of the cushions and extends a welcoming arm. If Michael is scared or shook up, Jack is more than happy to have him close. But instead of slipping down onto the couch next to Jack, Michael comes to rest right on top of him, a knee on either side of his hips, and before Jack can make sense of any of it, a pair of soft, warm lips are on his.

\---

Michael had wondered what it would be like to kiss Jack.

He’s denied the knowledge at first, Jack pulling back immediately--shocked maybe--and Michael is pleading, “Please, Jack,” before he’s even thinking--and maybe the words make it easier because when Michael tries a second time, letting his weight rest on the man beneath him, Jack relents.

And then their first kiss begins.

At first Jack seems to be more beard than lips and even still it’s better than Michael had expected--Jack’s lips parting easily for Michael. Jack lets him lead--and if Michael was unsure, at first, about what he was seeking by padding out to the living room, he realizes his aim very quickly. It’s not electric or tense--not the breaking of a long-known tension or the consummation of some secretly harbored desire. It’s patience and warm care and tenderness and Michael wants more of it, wants the expression ridden out to its natural conclusion. Jack under him is a warm, yielding mountain of a man and Michael rests his body against him as they come out of the kiss, appreciating the rise and fall of Jack’s chest, the pulse he’s sure he can feel, even through Jack’s soft shirt.

Jack reaches a hand up and cups the side of Michael’s face in his palm, running a calloused thumb over his cheek.

“You don’t owe me anything, Michael,” Jack says. Michael can make out his smile, even without much light.

“I know,” Michael says. “Not why I want you.”

“I don’t--” Jack starts.

“I know the rule,” Michael says, soft but interrupting, firm. “If you don’t want me, I’ll go back to my room. No hard feelings, Jack. But I want you.”

Jack’s hands find their way to Michael’s hips, then. Maybe the man is making a silent calculation, deciding if it’s worth it or not to break the rule. It’s a moment too long, and Michael shifts his weight back towards his heels.

“I’m sorry, Jack, shit, I’m sorry--”

The hands don’t leave his hips. Instead they go tighter, and one palm finds the small of Michael’s back, and Jack lifts his hips a few inches off the couch and it’s enough to tilt Michael forward--and then Jack is closing the distance between them, kissing Michael, curling a hand into the hair at the base of his scalp. It is slow and tender and not quite like anything or anyone Michael has had before--on or off duty.

\---

Michael is slight and adept above Jack. Kissing him is easy--made easier by the knowledge that they’re both sober, that they both in this moment want this, that they will still be the same men to each other in the morning. Made easier by the relief that Michael is ok.

They are thorough and unhurried as Michael undresses him, Jack throwing his weight up from the couch as Michael peels off Jack’s shirt, hitching up his hips as Michael shuffles him out of his shorts.

And then the slight weight is gone, Michael issuing a hushed “One sec,” before disappearing down the hallway back towards his room. He’s back before Jack has a chance to have any second thoughts, tossing a fresh, small bottle of lube down onto the couch before he has a hand light on Jack’s groin and his lips pressing into the skin at the base of his belly, kissing slowly up towards his chest.

\---

When Jack takes someone to bed--which isn’t often, admittedly, because he keeps too busy for casual sex and hasn’t been in the market for a relationship in ages--he’s always prided himself on being endlessly giving. There is something very deeply satisfying, after all, in hearing the shuddering breath of your lover and knowing that you’re the cause, or in hearing them repeat your name softly like a mantra as they ride out an orgasm on your face, your throat, your fingers.

But Michael gives him no such chance.

And when Jack reaches up to trace the shapes that Michael’s body makes in the dark between kisses and friction and breaths, Michael is naked and has a hand behind himself, working himself open as he bucks against Jack’s hips--and the realization has Jack sighing into Michael’s mouth and hooking a thumb into his own boxers, dragging them down his thighs to free his own hard-on. Michael’s breath changes at the new contact of bare skin on skin and the two of them hum for a moment, forehead to forehead.

They need this equally in the moment.

\---

Michael goes slowly with clients because he’s good at what he does and customer satisfaction is a real priority.

But this--what he’s doing here on the couch, in the pretty house he calls home in Sparks--is for him. And tonight he wants Jack and he doesn’t want to wait anymore. Measured tenderness has worked him halfway to a frenzy and he just _wants_ now. Michael lets his spine curve up and his hips press down as he works slicked fingers into himself. He wills his body to relax and it’s not difficult.

Jack makes him feel very slight--like he’s only a sliver of a human being, like his bones are so hollow and delicate that he could take flight if he wanted.

It’s not a pleasure he enjoys often.

When a john is bigger than Michael, it is a source of anxiety--not pleasure--and even trusted johns could turn, go mean. Michael doesn’t carry a weapon on calls and big clients give him pause.

It’s not that he feels fear or even discomfort. It is simply that Michael knows the situation dictates that he cannot let go, cannot give in and lose himself to the world of the physical. He has to keep his wits.

But it is different here with Jack.

And so the practiced callboy finds himself experiencing, unexpectedly, this new aspect of sex. Enjoying large, strong hands against his skin--fingertips pressing firmly here and there, into his hips, into his ass, against his ribs. Every movement of Jack makes him feel delicate and Jack’s grip, though not hard, is almost painful at the places of Michael that are skin stretched thin over bones and muscles--and even the pain is pleasure.

As he relaxes against his own hand, Michael feels like his body is threatening to float away, tethered only by its desire to remain against Jack--who is both hard and pliant, warm and humming and a large, familiar presence underneath him in the dark.

\---

There’s no foreplay--just kissing, just holding, just the feeling of skin on skin. And then Michael is reaching back and between them, fingertips ghosting against Jack’s cock, moving and guiding him and pressing him against Michael. Jack flushes with panic for a moment--it hadn’t been long enough, there was no chance Michael was ready--and Jack begins to say something but Michael cuts him off with a slow kiss.

“Come on, Jack,” Michael says, easing off. Jack can hear his smile in the dark. “I’m a professional.”

He is. And it shows.

Michael shifts his weight. His grip is back now and tight around Jack’s cock--and then Jack realizes he’s pressing bruising fingertips against Michael’s hips because Michael--his employee, his roommate, his friend--is sitting back, is lowering himself impossibly slowly onto Jack’s cock and the tight, hot heat makes him dizzy, makes him throb, makes him make a noise he barely recognizes.

Michael lets out a low, hissed “ffffuck” as he sits back until his ass is flush with Jack’s thighs, and Jack can hear Michael controlling his breathing.

\---

Even after three practiced and slicked fingers, even after Michael had lulled himself into a complete moment of zen-like relaxation, Jack is almost too big to take like this without more prep. And if Michael were with a client--with someone who he trusted less than 110%--he wouldn’t move forward like this, teetering on the razor edge of pleasure and pain as he rests down against Jack, taking him to the hilt, willing himself to breathe and relax around the cock that his nerves are shouting is going to goddamn split him if he isn’t careful. Michael knows the limits of his own body, after all--knows that they’re nowhere near those limits. He’d just been ambitious and impatient.

And just as he’d predicted, after a moment his nerves relent, go calm, muscles easing up now--and there’s a very short distance between nerve endings that cry for him to stop and nerve endings that shout for him to go faster.

He begins to move. Just to rock a little, almost imperceptibly, tilting his hips a few degrees forward and then a few degrees back.

“Are you OK?” Jack asks, soft--his eyebrows knit together as he looks up at Michael. Michael realizes his expression has gone slack with pleasure that was probably impossible to parse through for the other man, and he smiles now.

“I’m great,” Michael says.

“Christ you’re tight,” Jack says through a breath.

Michael strokes a palm flat from Jack’s navel to his neck, rolling his hips a little more now, appreciating the shuddering breath he draws out of Jack and letting his own breathing go expressive. He feels full and narrow in between Jack’s hands and he wants more.

\---

Jack had heard feedback from their clients about Michael before. Sometimes it was raunchy and pornographic. Sometimes it was more about Michael’s attitude than his body or the services he performed as a sex worker. Other than that, Jack had not let himself think about what it would be like to fuck his employee because rules were rules and there was no sense in letting his mind go down that road.

So no one had ever warned Jack, then, and Jack had never imagined for himself the practiced way that the call boy rides him now--with the unhurried and unstrained movements of an athlete or a dancer. Michael seems to know just where to put his hands at every moment, pressing palms down against Jack’s chest one moment and then bringing his hands up behind his head the next. Even with his hands laced behind his head, with every inch of him visible in the dim light and moving on top of Jack there on the couch--the spare, efficient muscles working under pale and perfect skin as his hips roll against Jack, the hard-on that dips and ghosts against Jack’s belly--even then it doesn’t feel like a performance.

As Michael rides him in slow, even strokes, Jack drags a hand up Michael’s torso. To his surprise, Michael draws an audible breath at the sensation and catches Jack’s hand when it reaches his chest. He pulls the hand up and presses warm kisses into the palm before dropping it and letting himself fall forward, catching Jack’s mouth in a kiss.

\---

The kiss has Michael feeling suddenly more urgent, his own erection finding traction between their bodies. He begins to work himself down onto Jack faster, his thighs burning a little at the exertion. It’s only a problem for a moment, though, because Jack has his hands at Michael’s knees.

“Bring your feet up…” Jack begins to say, and Michael doesn’t understand at first but it doesn’t matter because Jack is lifting him easily, moving his legs--and as Jack’s hands find his hips, as the man underneath Michael bucks up into him, Michael understands. His knees are on either side of Jack’s chest, and Jack holds him steady as he fucks up into Michael.

Riding Jack had been incredible, feeling the steady warmth of the body underneath him, listening to Jack breathe and moan and react to everything Michael had done. But being fucked by Jack is _beyond_ incredible, and Michael can hear himself begin babbling a steady stream of filth as he no longer controls the pace of the cock stroking up into him.

\---

Michael had been uncharacteristically quiet, but all that changes when he finally allows Jack to take the lead.

“Holy shit, Jack, holy hell, Jesus Christ that’s incredible, fucking _fuck_ that’s good--”

Michael starts and doesn’t stop until he leans close enough for Jack to catch his mouth in a kiss. And even then, Michael is moaning into his mouth, latching onto his bottom lip and sucking hard.

“Please, Jack, you’re gonna make me cum, I--”

“Don’t,” Jack says, soft but insistent. “I don’t want you cumming like this. I’ll take care of you.”

Michael’s voice drops deep and he presses wet kisses against Jack’s ear.

“I know you will,” Michael says.

\---

As Jack gets closer, rocking up into Michael with abandon now, it’s his turn to start talking.

“You’re incredible, Michael,” he says, holding him still by the hips, watching Michael’s body as he lets himself be fucked. “You’re gorgeous.”

And Michael is: mouth ruddy and fallen open as he moans, eyes alternately going wide to gaze down at Jack and squeezing shut as he rides a wave of pleasure. His hair--gone longer and shaggy in between trims--bounces along with him, falling across his forehead in a way that suddenly makes him seem younger and once again brings out the part of Jack that knows that if someone laid a hand on Michael, Jack would burn down all of Reno to find the motherfucker--and affection surges along with the orgasm building deep in Jack’s belly.

“Fuck, Michael, I’m close,” Jack breathes out--and Michael rides his bucking movements, smiling down now, beaming at Jack with teeth bared for a moment before it’s too much and his mouth falls open around a moan again.

Michael presses his hands down against Jack’s stomach, stilling Jack’s hips as Michael bucks up to ride him again--rocking up and forward before slamming back and starting over, stroking himself against Jack’s full length in a sweet and steady rhythm--and the stimulation is so good and so intense that Jack isn’t even sure when his orgasm technically begins but he feels the flood of sensation that builds and builds impossibly and knows without a doubt that he’s cumming into Michael, clutching at the smaller man’s hips, and babbling out “fuck, Michael, fuck, Michael,” until he’s ridden the last shuddering moment.

\---

Michael whimpers as Jack pulls out--would’ve been happy to stay there much longer on top of Jack just enjoying the sensation of the man underneath him. But Jack doesn’t even indulge in a moment of afterglow. The minute he has his wits back, he’s moving, shimmying out from under Michael and guiding him to lay back on the couch. Michael hears the click of the bottle of lube--assumes Jack must be closing it to put it away--can feel the weight of Jack shifting between his legs on the couch. Jack hitches Michael's hips up easily, his shoulders pressed into the backs of Michael’s thighs.

Michael expects the hot velvet mouth that swallows sweetly around him. What he doesn’t expect a moment later are the slicked fingers sliding into him, crooking up easily into his prostate--as if Jack had a sixth sense for it, as if the two of them had done it a hundred times before. His hips jerk at the stimulation and Jack goes still, the mouth leaving him.

“Is this ok?” Jack says, unable to keep the concern out of his voice.

“Christ Jack, yes, fucking hell it’s ok--just don’t goddamned stop.”

Jack laughs low and takes Michael into his mouth again, humming and pleased. He goes to work again, fingers stroking sweet and smooth--and each time he presses into Michael’s prostate, the wave of pleasure seems to pulse and build until Michael might as well just be a groin and ass because all he can feel are those confident fingers pumping into him and the mouth and throat around him as Jack sucks and swallows down his cock.

It is less that Michael cums and more that Jack simply drags the orgasm out of him--and Michael curls his fingers through Jack’s hair as he moans and whimpers through the feeling, Jack swallowing and not missing a beat--the fingers no longer pumping into him now but laying short strokes against Michael’s prostate as he throbs at the stimulation, the orgasm spiraling off and going longer and longer as if Jack is refusing to let it end.

When Michael’s muscles start to quiver and his eyes begin to water, Michael knows that he’s done--but the stimulation, the overstimulation--is sitting on the edge of pleasure and pain and in a broken voice he repeats Jack’s name as the man finally begins to slow, as the swallowing around him becomes less intense and the strokes shallower. Jack eases Michael off of the surge of pleasure until they’re both humming and slowly detaching from each other before fitting their bodies together again there on the couch.

 

 


End file.
